


God only knows when I'll come to my senses.

by alltoowell



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, I think?, Sorry Not Sorry, this is porn??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:59:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoowell/pseuds/alltoowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She could drown in Hannibal. </p>
<p>Sex-scene from 2x06, from Alana's perspective. </p>
<p>((could also be called: 'because Alana Bloom is my queen and even when her decisions are stupid I will continue to justify them'))</p>
            </blockquote>





	God only knows when I'll come to my senses.

**Author's Note:**

> lol, my attempt at het porn that doesn't end in angst...decide for yourself how that works out. Hints sarcasm on my part that can be easily interpreted to be Alana's naivety/Team Hannibal-ness or just general author-confusion when you don't want to ship something but you kind of do.
> 
> This was originally going to be a companion piece to the 'Alana finding out' stuff hidden in my documents, but then this spun out of control and I decided to just post it as it is. Maybe I'll get around to that at some point when I decide how I feel about this. 
> 
> My apologies it's unbetaed. Feedback is much appreciated!

She feels weightless.

 Frighteningly so: like her body is floating, her limbs loose and her heart fluttering fiercely in her chest, a wavy haze of desire tugging her deeper into Hannibal’s arms. She doesn’t recall drinking enough for her mind to have grown this dizzy or foggy, and instead chooses to accept that it is the resurfacing of long-buried lust that is taking the toll: she smiles at that thought-- the idea that the recklessness bubbling inside her has nothing to do with the alcohol she has consumed tonight; that she is in fact drunk on Hannibal. 

He tastes like the wine she brought over and the dessert she watched him prepare. She licks his lips as he’s kissing her, wanting to taste herself next time. He holds her like he’s certain and stable and not at all partial to the thought of letting her go. He smiles against her lips and she allows herself a sigh of sweet relief; this is what security feels like, she thinks airily, her hands in his hair. This could even be love if she let herself fall. 

It might even be too late for that, because his hands are bracing her hips, gently caressing curves and she throws her head back. Memories resurface in her mind; twirling her hair around her finger aimlessly, pen set between her lips as she once sat at the back of his classroom and watched him talk, watched him move, watched him with awe and wonder. It wasn’t fair that somebody could be so graceful; it was downright unjust that he should be so charismatic and charming as to command every eye in the room on himself. Those cheekbones fascinated her, even then. Now, she runs her fingers along them fleetingly, as though they are a harpsichord made of glass.

He lays her down on the bed, hands cushioning her head from the fall. He doesn’t want to hurt her; he _cares_ about her. She lets herself smile at that, prays silently he won’t ask her what she’s thinking. 

While he unbuttons his own shirt she reaches back and slips the clips out of her hair clumsily, yanks the band with force that makes her wince. She shakes her head and hair falls around her, thick and wavy and unruly.

He tells her she’s beautiful, and she thanks God he can’t see her blush with the lack of light in the bedroom. “So are you,” she manages honestly, momentarily derailed by the exposure of his chest. She’s only seen him shirtless once before-- weeks ago now, when he had smelled like blood and she’d been blinded by horrified tears and her heart had been heavy in her chest.

Tonight, he smells like spices from cooking and his typical cologne that always made her think of sand and burning; she’s taking him in with clarity and clear eyes, untainted by misplaced loyalties; her heart is so light it doesn’t feel as though it’s still inside her at all. 

He catches her staring, touches his hand to her chin and tilts her face up. “Alana,” Hannibal says, commanding her attention like he has always been able to do so skilfully, and she can tell by his eyes that he understands completely. He doesn’t need some sort of personality disorder in order to empathise with her; he can see her point-of-view without having to exchange his own sanity. Things with Hannibal are simple, idyllic, they have known each other too long for a misunderstanding to occur now-- he knows her well enough to know that her hesitance to touch his scars stems from concern and not disgust. “Alana,” he repeats, like he’s drawing her back to him, and she’s never had anybody say her name as though they don’t want to lose her before. “I assure you, I am fine.”

 _Yes you are,_ she thinks teasingly, and then she blushes because she’s supposed to be much more mature than the girl whose heart used to skip beats when Dr Lecter leaned across her to mark a paper. She smirks all the same, and, as though he really can read her mind, Hannibal returns it devilishly. 

He kisses her this time, and she allows her hands to move along the course of his chest-- muscles and tight skin, slick with sweat. She closes her eyes, tries to memorise the map of his body beneath her hands. She wants to remember everything, but the feathery feeling that she can’t shake reminds her that she won’t be able to. 

Which just means this will all need to be repeated when entirely sober.

Hannibal’s lips move to her neck, and she sincerely doubts he will object to round two. The tender movements of his lips against her skin has her squirming in pleasure, his hair tickling her cheek evoking light-hearted laughter. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt like this-- doesn’t know if she ever felt like this before-- pure, unadulteratedly happy, as though she could drown in a sea of her own feelings and it would still be a pleasurable experience.

Or she could drown in Hannibal.

She likes that idea better, actually, so she works the clasp on his belt while he slips her dress-- already unzipped, by this point-- from her shoulders. She allows his trousers to fall around his ankles, revelling in the image of him perched above her, their only barriers underwear they can both see through. But Hannibal is meticulous: he untangles her from his arms and slips her dress off entirely, turning to the side to fold it over a nearby chair and flexing muscles in the process.

He does the same with his trousers, but she doesn’t mind the loss of contact (well, much.) She’s always enjoyed watching him, and this time, there is no one else who she needs to share his attention with. This time, he is focused on her and her alone. 

When he turns back, she isn’t expecting him to bend down and kiss her again-- heated and passionate, and she’s still floating but maybe now it’s above a blazing fire. Her insides feel as though they’re burning at the reception of his touch. She pushes herself up, their heads inadvertently banging together at her sudden movements-- too busy touching and kissing to laugh or apologise, although Hannibal soothes her forehead with a healing brush of his soft lips-- and he braces his arms around her.

The soft click of him undoing her bra strap with ease fills her with buzzing excitement, and of course he would be as skilled at all of this as he is at everything else. Really, it is cruel for one person to be so utterly perfect. She doesn’t feel envious in the slightest though: just lucky.

 _Lucky, lucky, lucky_. She repeats the word like a song in her mind, smiling as she does so.

Her breasts fall and instinctively she reaches to hold the open bra in place. Hannibal corrects this by sliding the straps down her shoulders, and she tugs her arms free: she captures him in a kiss as the silk material falls between them. 

Her panties are easily lost-- she shimmies them from her hips with Hannibal’s help, realising too late there is already a dampness to them that she should probably be embarrassed about. This only serves to ensure Hannibal looks _more_ satisfied with himself.

His boxers are the last to go-- it doesn’t take much concentration, thankfully, so she manages that part at least alone. His penis springs out-- already half-hard and she looks up at him, a smile on her face at the expectance she finds in his eyes. For a second, her brain short-circuits at the warm weight of him, burning a hole in her palm, but then he interrupts her complete loss in the face of lust by leaning over her, to his bedside table, and elegantly pulling out a condom without needing to even look.

She could tell him that she’s taking care of it-- she’s been on birth control since she was fifteen years old, not that it’s been necessary for its main purpose all that much. Still, she watches him tear the foil packet open gracefully with his teeth (who looks graceful when salvaging a condom wrapper? she wonders. Answer: Hannibal Lecter can make anything seem graceful, without needing to remotely try) and finds herself falling into thoughts that she really shouldn’t. 

Wonders, flippantly, if Hannibal ever wants to have children. He would be a good father, she thinks, recalling how sensitive and loving he was with Abigail. He would be the kind of parent a kid wants to have-- kind, understanding, patient. He would tell wonderful bedtime stories; he would scare away all the monsters; being held in his arms for even a minute would be the cure to any illness, any ailment.

It is a ridiculous thing to be thinking about as he rolls the latex along his penis-- much too serious and heavy a topic for her to consider broaching anytime in the foreseeable future. But, a small part of her mind allows her to think, think that maybe someday it won’t be out of place or too soon. Someday he will no longer be caught up in a witch-hunt and she might be able to trust her judgement again.

 _Maybe someday,_ and she tucks that sweet thought away somewhere safe, somewhere she can revisit later, but somewhere out of direct focus, so she can concentrate on enjoying this moment for all it is rather than forcing a future she doesn’t yet know if he will even want to share with her. 

The feel of Hannibal’s hands cupping her breasts has her smiling dreamily-- right now, reality is better than her imagination, and that has to be a first. She wants him to set the pace, her hands trailing up and down his spine, the muscles in his back. This should fall under the definition of worship, she decides-- this painful appreciation of another person’s body pushing her to the brink of adoration.

“I’m ready when you are,” Hannibal whispers in her ear, still hovering above her like an angel, waiting. 

Alana’s been ready for so long it’s embarrassing: she doesn’t want to wait a second longer to feel him fill her. But this deep-rooted, forever unforgotten need cannot be translated into words with his penis teasing her clit, so she kisses him a final time-- hot, heavy, lacking the same finesse of before but God she wants to melt in his arms-- before meeting his eyes (darker than usual, with some sort of reverence she can detect. The sheer possibility makes her blush) and nodding once.

He pushes inside her. Gentle at first, tentative, watching her closely for any signs that she’s uncomfortable, but then he begins to rock and she _feels_ him-- feels whole, finally-- with such presence and force that she bites her lip to keep from crying out. It’s a pleasurable sort of pain, the kind that makes her throw her head back and her hands shake with the effort of keeping herself composed. 

She doesn’t need to look at his face to know he’s smiling. She thrusts herself up, forcing him deeper into her, bucking his self-composed rhythm, throwing him off-guard for a fraction of a second, and she loves the fact she was able to surprise him; she loves the power of his hands on her hips, guiding her in compromise; God, she just _loves_.

Hannibal, sensing perhaps just how much she’s thinking, sensing the intensity with which she is holding herself together, chooses this moment to lean forward and press his lips softly against her own. He never once breaks the pace that their hips are moving in, but continues to urge her into release with his tender kisses and skilled hands. He is the most attentive lover she has ever had, so accurately in tune with everything she wants, and she’d _known_ it would be this wonderful; she’d known it would be worth the wait. 

His tongue on her neck as he trails kisses there has her gasping like a fool, but he laughs against her skin, the vibration of his amusement pulling her even closer. He nips tenderly, but he doesn’t bite, and she is almost disappointed-- in the morning, she wants every shred of evidence she can get to prove that this is real, that this happened-- but then his hands are in her hair instead of on her hips, his steady guidance no longer needed now they’re both so near; so out of control. She doesn’t need a mark to remember how honoured it feels to have Hannibal expose himself to her. This feeling of worthiness will stay with her forever (too special to be forgotten even if drowsy from alcohol) and she couldn’t be more grateful. 

“Hannibal,” murmured, too lazy to be anything resembling a moan, and he makes a noise at the back of his throat that has her shuddering. “Fuck, Hannibal,” she says again, desperate, unable to stop herself from cursing so abruptly and rudely. Let Hannibal reprimand her later, she decides with a hopeful smirk. 

One final lick-- long and slow, exaggerated as he trails his tongue down her chest from the space between her breasts where her heart rests to the area above her navel. She feels warmth escape her as she gasps, his name falling from her lips in a cry once more as she comes, and for a split second she feels nothing at all-- earlier happiness, anticipation, concern all evaporated.

Weightlessness is one thing, numbness is another, and her relief is quickly replaced with fear-- there had been a lot of things she’d wanted to forget by sleeping with Hannibal, but her own emotions had not been one of them.

But then Hannibal eases out of her, kissing her forehead with such affection that her heart lurches contentedly in her chest and every wonderful feeling she’d felt over the last half hour comes flooding back, overwhelming her to the point she feels her eyes sting. She is so close to saying something she has never felt so sure she couldn’t regret, before realising it isn’t over-- not yet.

She reaches for his penis, finding pride in its undeniable firmness, offers slow, gentle strokes with one hand while her other squeezes him. He maintains eye contact the entire time, and it unnerves her ever so slightly. She’s the one doing the touching this time, but she still doesn’t feel in control.

Maybe that is for the best: maybe that is what she needs. Someone else to pull the strings; someone who she trusts implicitly to guide and advise and support. Maybe she doesn’t want the burden of being the moral, logical one anymore-- especially because she wasn’t so apt at it last time. She wants to give the upper hand to Hannibal, because she didn’t do a very good job of balancing it herself. 

This feels better. Laying her burdens on Hannibal’s shoulders, strong and steady; offering herself up to him like a meal he can lavish; being made to feel valued instead of guilty. 

He comes against her stomach-- one of her hands having shifted to twist his hair, the other pressing against the back of his neck as they kiss and she subsequently forgets how to think when his lips whisper her name against her own.

He breaks away from the kiss so they can both catch their breath-- she is thankful he is so naturally caring and preoccupied with the needs of others, because the need for oxygen had slipped her mind completely-- and she rests their foreheads together. Their noses touch; she feels electricity. 

Hannibal suggests something about a shower, but she is much too delirious to reply or move. She wonders where he finds the energy from, given she is completely spent. 

He disappears for a moment; panic when her mind fails to make the connection that he has only gone into the ensuite to get a washcloth. The water is lukewarm against her skin, washing away the stickiness, and watching him clean himself almost has her reaching out again in desire.

She refrains-- her body limp, but her muscles too heavy-- and when he finally lays down beside her, she inches toward his warmth. A final kiss as fleeting as a butterfly against her hair has her eyes drifting shut, his arm coming around her waist all the assurance she needs that she will have no problem whatsoever fitting herself into his life more permanently. He wants her here; he wants her to stay. 

She thinks she could-- forever, probably, if he would let her-- but it’s too early to be discussing things like that. She has had tonight, and she has tomorrow morning, and that is enough, for now. 

She’ll take what she can get when it comes to Hannibal. She always has.


End file.
